


Down the rabbit hole.

by Lauren_is_a_moron



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:46:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauren_is_a_moron/pseuds/Lauren_is_a_moron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Lester forgets his damn phone charger and it starts to rain. He has no coat and gets soaked through quickly. His only shelter is an old phone booth…which happens to plummet nine stories through the ground into Britain’s famous MI5 headquarters.</p>
<p>And of course crashing Agent 778’s special presentation he had worked really fucking hard on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down the rabbit hole.

 

-

He’d been trying to see if he had any Neko Atsume cats, and yes, maybe that was the reason why his phone died. And maybe he should have remembered to check his bag before he left his dorm, but he got up late and there was no fucking milk, and PJ _had_ to have milk on his cereal, so yeah. That was it then; it was all PJ’s fault. That’s what Phil Lester thought as he speed-walked down the packed streets of London- shops lined the popular stretch of road, and the smell of coffee and croissants made his mouth water.  His eyes stayed glued to the black screen of his phone and his finger continued to press down on the power button, as if it would magically turn on at his expense. Phil let out a sigh, and a further louder groan when the heavens seemed to suddenly prise themselves open above him. He craned his neck, swallowing a string of profanities as it started to rain. Fat splashes came down giving no mercy to any passer-by. But luckily for the rest of the population of London, they _did_ have umbrellas and hoods to keep them dry. Phil tried not to make eye-contact with anyone, keeping his head down. As he walked he felt icy rain sliding down his neck and face. His eyelashes were dripping when he dared look up to see where he was going. “Shit.” He grumbled, returning his gaze to the cracked pavement which was starting to pool with filthy rain water.

 He hopped over a puddle trying to ignore the fact his jumper was soaked through and was doing a good job of sticking to his skin. He felt like he had just tumbled face-first into a pond. He reached a huge glass screen of a store’s window and couldn’t help checking himself out, notifying himself of the damage. He ran a hand through obsidian strands of hair sticking to his forehead. Well, his fringe was ruined. He scowled at his reflection, and he _swore_ it smirked back at him. He looked so damn pathetic. Standing there in a dark green hoodie and black jeans. No coat. Yes he _did_ remember Louise sitting at the breakfast bar this morning while PJ sat next to him and complained about having _no fucking milk_. “Phil, don’t forget your coat!” she had smiled at him as he tried to ignore PJ’s grumbling, and was doing a shitty job of it. His teeth were gritted as he sipped his own milk-less tea.

 “I won’t.” had been his steely reply. Not because he was annoyed with her, or what she said irritated him. It was purely because he had barely any sleep, and had a three hour lecture to look forward to.

 “April showers, Phil.” Louise had smirked at him before turning to PJ, who was spooning dry cornflakes up and dropping them with what could only be described as a tragic expression.

 He shivered, the chill making him walk faster. His jeans weren’t much better. Completely sodden through. He could imagine his roommate’s faces as he stumbled into the dorm looking like he’d just taken a dip in the Thames. Phil wrapped his arms around himself for warmth and prayed the rain hadn’t soaked through his bag. There was at least a thousand pound worth of camera equipment in his bag pack. PJ would kill him. He had used PJ’s expensive canon for a class project- something about photographing beautiful things. Believe it or not the sky was actually blue earlier, and it was actually warm. Now however, Phil could only stand in front of the shop window and sadly stare at himself as he was slowly drowned by the so-called “April showers”. He thought about calling the TAXI on his mobile, but wanted to curse himself, and then wanted to curse those damn Neko Atsume cats. His need and possible obsession to refill Frisky Bitz all day may had ruined PJ’s prize canon. After dwelling for a little longer, getting even wetter and not accomplishing anything except possibly contracting pneumonia, Phil continued to walk down the long strip of street littered with posh restaurants and charity shops. He caught a whiff of simultaneous spaghetti Cabanara fresh out of the pan , followed by the musty smell of old dusty books as he passed “Roberts Delish” followed by an OXFAM shop. A teenage girl was struggling with at least four bags of books, and he swore he saw _two_ copies of the famous Twilight series at the bottom of a bright red bag hanging from her grasp. The girl however, had a coat and hood. And could only try not to stare sympathetically as he squelched past. Phil was pretty sure both of his trainers were filled to the brim with dirty water.

TAXI. Phil let out a shaky laugh when the word came to him. He’d call a TAXI. He had about eight pound in his wallet and could draw some money out if need be. He lifted his head up and was met with an icy lash of wind and rain attacking his face, automatically worsening his mood. How the hell was he going to call a TAXI? He played with the idea of standing at the side of the street and yelling for one, but it was likely that he’d be ignored, and possibly splashed right in the face.

Plus, this wasn’t New York. Phil was all out of ideas and was about to admit defeat and find a Costa to hole up in until the storm stopped, but something caught his eye as he forced his way through the whistling wind which had started, accompanying the lashing rain. A phone box.  Phil almost missed it as he scanned the streets for shelter. But there it was; standing at the edge of the street in all of its pre-2010 glory. He was sure hadn’t used one in at least ten years. But there it was. Before he knew what he was doing, he was rushing down the street, and yes, maybe he looked like an idiot, but shelter was getting closer. It might be a slightly claustrophobic shelter and probably stunk of somebody’s piss, but it had a roof. And Phil was desperate.

He made it in three swift steps, yanking open the brittle glass door and forcing himself inside the tiny space, and after fighting with a rather aggressive gust of wind, manages to slam it shut.

Phil took a moment to breathe. Standing there with his back pressed against the glass and tried not to think about whom else had been in here. He was breathing hard, his heart slamming against his chest. “Right,” he muttered after a few minutes of staring outside through the dirty glass at passers-by who had also forgotten their coat. He felt a smile tugging at his lips as he watched a young girl around thirteen holding her bright green folder ontop of her head, trying to keep her hair dry. But he lost his smirk when a chill ran down his spine, and he remembered his soaked through jumper plastered to his skin, his jeans welded to his legs and of course his filthy squelching shoes.

“Shit!” Phil couldn’t help growling when he tried to peel off his jumper to at least see if his t-shirt underneath was too soaked. But the material was stuck to his skin. With a sigh he let his backpack drop at his side and knelt to root around in it. Thankfully the bag was rain-proof and nothing had got wet. PJ’s camera was still intact in its little blue bag. Phil let out a breath of relief and pulled out his wallet, managing to dig out a five pound note and then two pound coins. TAXI fare. If he was right.

Next was trying to figure out how to use the damn pay-phone. Phil frowned at it lifted the heavy black handset off the small metal plate it was connected to. It was connected by a long grey wire and he held it to his ear, unsure. There was a dial tone. Great. Phil stared at the small keypad which was numerical numbers in three lines, just like on his mobile. He could totally do this. He was eighteen years old; he’d used one of these things before. Well, it had been in year seven and he had been mimicking his mum’s voice to his head-teacher, trying to make it out like it was sick

Phil cleared his throat and pushed the silver buttons slowly, thankful he had remembered the local TAXI firms number, after many, many drunken nights out which had ended in tears.

He punched the last number, the nine, and frowned when nothing happened. The dial tone remained, but there was no ringing tone. Phil stood there for a further five minutes punching in the number and after every fail, he hit the numbers more and more aggressively, until he must look insane from a passer-by. Phil glanced outside, with the handset still pressed to his ear, staring into the grim grey sky. It was still pouring, and the streets were empty. He tried again, and again and again, until he got so irritated, he slammed the handset down and let it dangle on its silver wire.

How the hell was he going to get home? He raked his brains, but came up with nothing. He was shivering now, and his nose was sniffling and he felt a cough coming on. Shit. He wrapped his arms around himself once again, praying it brought the slightest of warmth. Phil sighed and let his head fall against the dirty window of the glass window. The panes were cracked already, and someone had announced their love for “Jessica H” followed by a bright red heart and the date: 2009.

Phil thought about trying the phone again, but something was telling him it hadn’t worked in a while. Instead, he slumped down and brought his knees to his chest. Yes, the flooring was wet and disgusting, but his jeans were already soaked through and probably ruined anyway. It was still raining, and Phil wanted to cry. He really did. He’d had to put up with a three hour lecture; followed by a tedious hour at the students union which he really regretted joining. All he wanted to do was go back to his dorm, drink some coffee or maybe a hot chocolate, and collapse into his bed.

Oh, god and some soup. His stomach grumbled as he started to fantasize about food, all while considering running home. It was about half an hour on foot. Maybe twenty minutes if he ran?

Suddenly, the phone box started to shake, without any warning. Phil let out a yelp, jumping up and grabbed onto the panes. At first he thought it was an earthquake, but when he looked outside, nothing was shaking. Everything was so still. Peaceful. Rain still fell harshly though, and Phil made a grab for the door, yanking it open. He’d rather take his chances out in the rain.

Except…the door didn’t budge. Phil tugged at it, letting out a yell. “Come on!” he hissed. But the door was stuck shut to his bewilderment. “What the hell?!” he slammed his hands on the glass windows. “Help!” he let out a cry when the booth started to jolt causing him to stumble and fall on his backside. Then to his amazement and disbelief, the floor seemed to split apart beneath the phone booth. And then he was falling. He was dropping so fast he had to hang onto the metal panes for dear life. Phil shut his eyes letting out a yell as he seemed to drop _through_ the ground and there was no sign of stopping. His stomach flipped, his brain crashed around in his skull and he was afraid it was going to leak out of his ears. His scream wasn’t audible to him anymore as his ears popped and his stomach did a front flip into his throat. He kept his eyes squeezed shut desperately, pressing his back against the glass and awaiting impact.

I’m going to die

I’m going to die

I’m going to-

And then he stopped.

Well, the booth did. His brain continued however, to thrash around in his skull like a pinball machine on crack. The booth stopped so abruptly, Phil was so sure he had been imagining it. But he wasn’t. The phone booth had stopped. Phil managed to gather himself and stand up, his entire body shaking and his stomach still dancing. “Wha..?” he couldn’t formulate words as he opened his eyes to find himself staring through the phone-booth’s doors, and then through a huge glass viewing window.

“What the fuck?!” a voice yelled. Young. Annoyed. Oh god. Very, very pissed. Phil blinked rapidly, but he wasn’t imagining this. He was standing directly in front of a screen, and in there was a group of people all in white shirts and black pants. Some of them wore glasses and clutched what looked like files. They sat at a long glass table, each of them with an individual glass of water.

“Hey! You!” Phil snapped out of it, and managed to tear his gaze away from the walls of the room, which were lined with every automatic rifle he had ever saw, and ones he hadn’t. He couldn’t name them, but they were here. They were on the walls, and this…this was- he took a deep breath and forced his stomach to stay down. Was this some kind of headquarters?

“Oi, drowned rat, I’m fucking talking to you!” his chest tightened when he eventually rolled his gaze over to the man, no kid. Boy? He looked about Phil’s age. The boy stood there looking horrified and slightly disgusted, in front of a white screen which looked like some kind of presentation.

The boy was tall with short brown hair, an identical pair of black glasses to the others balancing on his head. He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants and had his arms folded.

Phil tried to speak. So many people were staring at him. Him, the boy looking like he’d just taken a leisurely swim in the Thames. The boy who yelled at him started to get impatient.  “Sir, I’m so sorry for the interruption,” he reassured a midget man with greying hair and an identical scowl. Then to Phil; “State your name and intention.” And as quick as Phil’s breath, the boy was whipping out a pistol, and pointing it _directly at him_. Phil took a few steps backwards and felt his back slam into the corners of the phone booth. He swore someone- the boy with gun? Chuckled.

Phil raised his hands above his head, too scared to speak. His tongue felt five times bigger than normal. “Phil Lester,” he choked out. Then feeling more confident; “Going home?”

The boy lowered his gun slightly, and Phil saw a flicker of amusement in the boy’s expression. “Are you sure you were going home and not swimming?” the stick up the boy’s ass seemed to loosen slightly, and Phil could only nod. “Yeah.” He said. “I- uh, it’s raining pretty bad up there.”

The boy shrugged. “Huh.” He cocked his head curiously and lowered his gun. “He’s no threat sir,” he confirmed to his boss and the room of people. “Just a sopping wet idiot who actually used a phone booth.”

Phil gritted his teeth against a retort and instead spoke up with the first question in his mind. “What is this place?” he managed to say, and took a small step forwards. His trainers squelched on the pristine glass floor, and he caught the boy wince. Nobody answered him, and he felt like asking again, but the boy shook his head discreetly. “Agent 778, what on earth is this?!” the midget man with the greying beard hissed. And the boy- Agent 778 rolled his eyes. “Not a threat sir,” he said clearly. “It’s just a kid.” Then he started to walk towards Phil. “I’ll take care of him.”

Phil flinched. Take care of me?! He tried not to shiver as the boy- Agent 778 neared him. He couldn’t help wonder how old the boy was. As Agent 778 got closer, he started to clearly see the agent for who he really was. A teenage boy with dimples when he smiled reassuringly at Phil. Funny, Phil thought. He hadn’t been smiling like that five minutes ago. Fuck, he’s going to kill me.

“So,” the boy held out his hand for Phil to shake with a smile. “Sorry about that. I thought you were a threat.” He explained. Then; “Plus, I swear I’ve been working on that field presentation for ages.”

Phil could only nod. Then it was like word vomit and he couldn’t stop it. “Are you going to kill me?”

The boy smirked. “Depends,” he murmured. “Have you got a weapon on you?” Phil knew from the teasing grin that the boy was joking, but he still took a few wary steps backwards.

“Chill out, I’m just going to take you upstairs,” and when Phil swallowed audibly, the boy rolled his eyes. “Upstairs to change?” he led Phil out of the presentation room and through an automatic door straight into a lift. “Oh.” Phil nodded. “Yeah, uh…I’m actually really cold.”

Agent 778 fingered with a mechanical keypad for a second before it bleeped and the lift doors slid shut.

“Really?” the boy’s tone was heavily sarcastic as the lift began to ascend, but Phil kind of weirdly enjoyed it. He liked how the boy’s fringe hung in his eyes, and ah his eyes, a pretty shade of deep almond. The boy- Agent 778 stared at him. “Dude, are you checking me out?” Phil tore his gaze away quickly and was too embarrassed to answer. The short trip on the lift was awkward and gave Phil vertigo. His head was still spinning from his insane adventure in the phone-booth. The agent attempted to make conversation, which died almost as suddenly as it started. The boy let out a playful whistle and leaned his head against the wall with a soft sigh. “You’re not very chatty, are you?”

“What’s your name?” Phil cut the silence and practically spat out the question, and the boy’s grin grew. “I’ve told you, It’s Agent 778.” He replied, but the way he looked at Phil and winked, Phil kind of really wanted to punch him. “No, I mean your real name.”  Phil insisted. “You know the one you were born with?”

The boy chuckled. “That’s classified.”

Phil was afraid of that. He spent the rest of the trip to the CIA or MI5 (whatever) bathroom’s in silence, and the boy went quiet too. “Try these on,” he handed Phil a shirt and a pair of jeans, and then after five minutes of digging around in lost property, returned with a blue raincoat.

Phil stripped of his soaking wet clothes before changing into the clothes he had been given while the boy waited outside the cubicle. “Hey, Phil,” the boy said, and it made him flinch as he squirmed into the polo shirt. He didn’t reply, but the boy spoke anyway. “There’s like an insurance policy for some fucked up reason, I don’t know, I’m just a field agent. But yeah, I need to give you…” the boy trailed off. “Well, I’m going to go ahead and think you’re a smart guy. You know it right?”

Phil went icy cold all over. “A lethal injection?!” he couldn’t help hissing. “A drug to make me forget?”

“What?” the boy laughed. “No, you spoon! I mean-“he trailed off again and sighed. “Just come out here.”

Phil grabbed his wet clothes which he had stuffed in a plastic bag and shouldered his bag pack.  He pushed the door of the cubicle open and stepped out, to find Agent 778 leaning against the sinks.

“Niiicee!” the boy grinned at him, and Phil found it hard to believe he was an agent of a secret organisation. “Okay, last thing!” he straightened up and walked over, slipping something out of his pocket. “Here. My boss wants you to have this.” He hands Phil a slip of folded paper and shrugs. “Chill, it’s just a list of helplines if you want to talk to someone about your experience.”

Phil frowned at the boy. “Okay?” he nodded, slipping the paper back into his pocket. Then Agent 778 led him down a further four corridors in silence this time. And finally; daylight. Phil walked through a set of automatic doors, and found himself standing back in the rain. He threw his hood up quickly with a groan, and Agent 778 standing beside him, chuckled. “I guess this is goodbye then Drowned Rat Phil Lester,” the boy leaned forward to shake hands, but quick as a flash, the boy was whispering in his ear so faintly he barely caught it. “As soon as you’re well away from here, read the paper.” Agent 778 was waving then and backing away and there was that playful glint in his eyes again.

Phil followed the agent’s instructions and made it so he was at least fifteen minutes away from the organisation. It was still raining, but it no longer bothered him. Phil found a park bench and sat down, automatically pulling the slip of paper out of his jeans. He unfolded it and stared at the white crinkly paper with a frown on his face, which slowly morphed into a small smile. Four words which sent his heart into frenzy, and maybe just maybe, he might be a little in love with Agent 778.

**It’s Dan. Dan Howell.**

And underneath that, a number.


End file.
